Wychwood Page 20

  She followed him back up towards the house. “Shouldn’t I wait with Mr Keel?” she said.

  Peter shook his head. “I want you where I can see you. Stick with me.” He approached the front door and rapped loudly with the knocker. He waited for a moment, but no one stirred inside the house, and no one came to the door. He knocked again, then stepped back and looked up at the windows.

  “Do you think they’ve had a fight, and done a runner?” said Elspeth. She leaned in, cupped her hands around her eyes and peered through the living-room window. She couldn’t make out much, other than the hulking silhouette of a sofa and the slanting reflection of the sunlight in the TV screen, but there didn’t appear to be any signs of life.

  “God, I hope not,” said Peter. “We had him in custody earlier.” The inference was obvious. It wouldn’t reflect well on the police if they had to mount a national manhunt for a suspect they’d set loose that same day. “We’ll put a call out to the hospitals once we’ve checked the house, just in case it was an accident.”

  “But their cars are still here. And surely if they’d called for an ambulance it would have been logged by the emergency services who took the call from Mr Keel?”

  “Yeah,” said Peter. “That’s what’s worrying me.” He was circling the house now, looking for an alternative way in. Elspeth reasoned there had to be a side entrance or rear door, because Rebecca had come out that way to find them the last time they’d visited. He’d obviously had the same idea.

  “Round here,” he called, a moment later. She hurried after him, her boots sinking in the loose gravel. She thought she could hear a dog barking, somewhere deep inside the house.

  Peter was standing by a white stable door that presumably led to the kitchen or scullery. He knocked again, and then tried the handle. It was locked.

  “How do you propose to get in?” said Elspeth.

  “Let’s try a good old-fashioned shoulder barge,” he said. He approached the side door, rattled it in the frame as if trying to figure out where to apply the most pressure, and then stepped back, dipped his shoulder, and ran at it. He struck it with a thunderous crunch, but rebounded almost immediately, his face creased in pain. The door remained resolutely shut. He glanced at Elspeth, looking rueful.

  “Are you hurt?” she said.

  “Only my pride.”

  “Look, are you sure this is necessary?”

  Peter ignored her. He sidled up to the door, raised his foot, and kicked it. It bowed in the frame but didn’t break. “One more…” said Peter. He repeated the motion, jamming his boot hard against the lock, and this time, with a splinter of cracking wood, the door shuddered and swung open.

  Elspeth had been right in her assumption that the door would lead into the kitchen. It was glorious, too; expensive and modern, with a central island, an American-style fridge, pan racks, an Aga range, and a marble floor with matching work surfaces. It was just a shame, she thought, that the couple had been too unhappy in each other’s company to enjoy it.

  Peter flicked the lights on as they went. In the dining room, the place was decorated with an expensive heritage taste; as if the Williams had enjoyed the pretence of restoring their Georgian home to its former glory, along with elaborate plaster florettes and chandeliers, replica furniture and antique carriage clocks – but also updating it, too, with an expensive array of modern gadgets.

  “Mrs Williams?” Peter had moved through to the living room. For a moment Elspeth thought he had found her, but it had just been a precautionary question, spoken into the darkness, and she found him alone. This room was at the front of the house, and adorned with a massive curved-screen television, sofas and chairs, magazine racks and fireplace, and a couple of bookcases filled with what looked like romantic fiction. None of Michael’s books were in evidence here – he must have kept them all down in the studio.

  “Upstairs?” she said. She had a sharp sense of déjà vu, and she thought about the way she’d wandered from room to room in another house recently, one far less grandiose – and what she had found on the floor in the bedroom.

  Peter shook his head. “Out there, first. There’s another room across the hall.” Elspeth nodded and followed. The hall was as grand as she’d imagined, with a ticking grandfather clock and a galleried staircase, swirling banisters smooth and enticing. The walls had been painted a bright, clean white, and hung with photographs in mismatched wooden frames. The Williams had no children – so far as Elspeth knew – but the photographs reflected upon the happier times in their lives: portraits in the garden, early book signings, holidays together in the sun, their wedding day. Rebecca looked so young and happy.

  Peter opened the door to the other room and they both stepped inside. It was almost precisely the same size and shape as the living room, a mirror image, in fact, on the other side of the house. Rather than a sitting room, though, the room had been kitted out as a gym, with a treadmill, a weight-lifting rig, a bench press and an exercise bike. The back wall was mirrored, with a rail running across it at waist height, and the floor was polished boards, lacquered with glossy varnish.

  Rebecca Williams was on her back before the mirrored wall, surrounded by a large congealing pool of her own blood. Her skull had been viciously caved in, so that her once-beautiful face was grotesquely distorted, one eye rolled back in a shattered orbit. Bone fragments, clumps of hair and brain matter had spilled across the floorboards, like obscene islands in a sea of oily blood. Close by, a dumbbell lay on the ground, sticky with blood. She was still dressed in the clothes she’d been working out in. This wasn’t another ritual killing. Something else had happened here – something brutal and awful.

  Elspeth felt an upwelling of anger, frustration, and intense sadness. Something dreadful had happened here on the farm, and it wasn’t yet clear how it all connected. Had Michael Williams done this to his wife, before fleeing? And the spilled blood in the summerhouse – was it his, hers, or someone else’s?

  “I’m going to call for backup now, Ellie,” said Peter. She realised he was standing in front of her. He put his hands on her shoulders, and then hugged her close. She put her cheek on his shoulder and hugged him back, but felt nothing at all – nothing but a horrifying, empty numbness.

  “I think you should wait in the car.” He paused for a moment. “Ellie?”

  “Sorry, what did you say?”

  “I said I think you should wait in the car. I’m sorry, I’m going to be here for a while, and I imagine DCI Griffiths is going to have some questions for you, but I think it’s best if you keep a low profile while the SOCOs come in.”

  Elspeth nodded and took the keys he was proffering. She’d seen enough. Peter was already dialling the station, his grim expression under-lit by the light from his phone. With a weak smile, Elspeth turned and left the room.

  * * *

  She sat in the passenger seat of Peter’s car while the police cars, ambulances and SOCOs came and went, lights winking, sirens wailing. David Keel was sitting in the back of a police car at the bottom of the drive, presumably giving a statement, and she supposed she’d probably be next.

  She’d tried making notes on her phone, tried sleeping, but she couldn’t settle to anything. She’d called her mum, feigning light-heartedness, and explained that she was out with Peter, so not to worry, and not to wait up.

  It was late now, gone eleven, and she hadn’t seen Peter for over an hour. She was cold, and she’d considered turning the keys in the engine and starting the heater, but she didn’t want to draw any attention to herself. Nor did she want to go looking for him.

  She heard a rap on the window and turned to see Inspector Griffiths peering in through the passenger window, her fingers pressed against the glass. She stood back when she saw that Elspeth had noticed her.

  Elspeth pressed the button but the electric window refused to activate without the keys in the ignition, so she popped the door open instead and slipped out. Griffiths was wearing a disconcerting expression, somewhere be
tween contained fury and admiration.

  “I’m beginning to wonder if I’m going to find you at all of my crime scenes, Ms Reeves.”

  Elspeth’s mouth felt dry. She moistened her lips. “I’m sorry,” was all she could muster. “I was trying to help.”

  Griffiths nodded. “DS Shaw explained the situation,” she said.

  Elspeth wondered what he’d said. “What’ll happen now?”

  “We’ll take the body back to the morgue and get it all written up. And we’ll mount a search for the husband. He’s the most likely suspect.” She chewed her bottom lip, as if she were about to say more, and then clearly changed her mind. “Do you need anything?” said Griffiths. “There’s a flask of tea doing the rounds?”

  “You know what, a hot tea would be just about perfect right now.”

  “Alright. I’ll see what I can rustle up. You sit tight. It’s going to be a long night. We’ll need a statement from you before it’s all over.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” said Elspeth.

  “No, I can see that,” said Griffiths. She stomped off across the driveway, barking something into her radio. The only part of it Elspeth understood was: “Shaw? You’d better get your girlfriend some tea.”

  Elspeth climbed back into the car, closed the door, and decided to find something cheerful to listen to on her phone. She thumbed through her selection, and in the end settled for David Bowie’s Scary Monsters.

  She propped the phone on the dashboard and leaned back, closed her eyes and tried to forget about everything going on around her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Consciousness returned slowly, light stuttering in sudden, erratic bursts. He had no idea where he was. His eyes felt gummy. He was cold and wet, uncomfortable. Someone had removed his shirt.

  And then everything erupted in pain – horrific, agonising, blinding pain. He swooned, close to passing out again. Then the light returned, and he sucked at the air, fighting panic. His heart was thrumming wildly.

  Michael Williams moaned and tried to move, but this just elicited further stabbing pain in his arms and wrists. The muscles in his back were cramping, and he couldn’t feel his legs.

  Everything went dark again. He thought he sensed someone moving nearby.

  He swallowed, but his throat felt dry. He tried to speak. “H… h… help.” It was nothing but a dry, broken croak. His mind was racing. What was happening? Where was he? He couldn’t remember what had happened, how he’d got here. Why was his mind so sluggish? “Rebecca?”

  The light flashed over him again, causing him to wince. The other person was holding a torch. Slowly his eyes adjusted to the glare. He realised he was outside. He was kneeling in the mud, amongst the mulch of fallen leaves. Trees rustled all around him in the breeze. He was hunched over, his feet bound beneath him. His wrists had been staked to the ground with huge iron nails, splintering the bones. The sight of the bloody, mangled mess caused him to wail pathetically. Dark blood was oozing out of the wounds with every thud of his heart, mingling with the damp soil. Then and there, he knew he was already dead.

  The light blinked off again.

  “I can pay,” he said, through gritted teeth. “I have money. Name your price.”

  Silence.

  “Just tell me what you want!”

  Still nothing.

  He heard footsteps behind him. His captor was moving around in the darkness. He fought another rising tide of panic. “Please…”

  “It’s not personal. Please don’t think it’s that. It’s just a necessary evil, nothing more. I don’t have any choice, you see. I’m recreating his great works, and everything has to be the same. Otherwise none of it will work.”

  The voice sounded fleetingly familiar, but disguised somehow, and Michael’s mind was whirling, unable to hold onto a single thought for more than a few moments. And the pain, the pain…

  The torch again, this time from behind. He sensed his captor leaning close, then felt the press of hands upon his back. His skin crawled, and he tried to twist around, to look back over his shoulder, but the pain in his wrists was searing, and he was forced to bow his head, unable to strain against his bonds.

  He felt the bite of the incision as something sharp sliced into his flesh, and screamed. He willed unconsciousness to come and swallow him again, but it wasn’t to be.

  More cutting. More pain. With a dawning sense of horror, he realised what was happening, what this all meant. He’d been staked to the ground, and his captor was carving ancient pagan sigils into his back. A spell of binding, just like The Master of the Pentacle from the Carrion King myths. Was this how it had been for the others, for Geoff and Lucy and that girl from the theatre?

  “Oh God, no. No!”

  “I’m so sorry,” said the man. “But know that your sacrifice will not be in vain. With your death, I take one step closer to the veil. Soon I shall walk amongst the living and the dead, and have power over both.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “Ellie?”

  Elspeth groaned and peeled open her eyes. It was bright in her bedroom – brighter than it should have been. She looked round to see Dorothy standing by the window, wreathed in a halo of sunlight and dust motes. She’d opened the curtains, and was holding what smelled enticingly like a hot mug of coffee.

  “What are you doing, Mum?”

  “It’s almost midday. I thought you might appreciate a wake-up call. I’ve made coffee, and I’m doing some bacon and eggs.”

  Elspeth groaned, and tried to fold herself into her pillow. She was weary, right down to her very bones. “Thanks, Mum. That’s lovely. I’ll be down in a minute.”

  “Right, I’ll leave this on the nightstand,” said Dorothy.

  Elspeth watched through bleary eyes as Dorothy left the room, closing the door behind her.

  She’d only had a few hours’ sleep. After sitting in the car until the early hours, she’d been accompanied into the house by a young constable who’d introduced himself as PC Blake. He’d sat with her in the kitchen – having first made her a fresh mug of coffee – while she wrote out her statement, going over everything that had happened at the Williams’s house that night. Then, when she’d finished, he’d walked her back to the car, where she’d found Peter waiting for her. The SOCOs had all packed up, and the body had been carted away to the morgue, and so DCI Griffiths had called it a night, making arrangements with her team to reconvene in the morning to go over everything.

  Peter had driven her home, barely saying a word as he continued to process everything they’d seen. She’d been so certain that Michael Williams was innocent of the murders of Lucy Adams and Geoffrey Altman, but now she wasn’t so sure. He’d been in the audience for the play, too, so he might have had the opportunity to slip backstage during the interval and kill Rose. It had seemed unlikely – she’d seen him pacing the lawn – but she couldn’t discount anything now. If he was capable of doing that to his wife… Then again, it might prove to be entirely unrelated. Perhaps he and Rebecca had fallen out after news of his relationship with Lucy Adams had come to light, and it had escalated from there. And then there was the spilled blood in the summerhouse. Could Rebecca have attacked him first?

  She wondered if she’d hear from Peter today, and what the continued investigations at the Williams’s house were yielding.

  She rolled over and reached for her phone. There was a message from Meredith that read simply: ‘???’. It had come through just after nine that morning. Clearly, news had broken about Rebecca’s murder. She was going to have to pull something together quickly that morning.

  Elspeth rubbed her gritty eyes, propped herself up on her pillow, and then fired off a quick response, explaining that she’d have an update for the website shortly.

  Elspeth stretched, yawning, then swung her legs out of bed and reached for her coffee. She downed it quickly, and then stumbled down the hall into the shower.

  * * *

  A short while later she was ensconced at the k
itchen table, tucking into a hearty breakfast. She’d filled Dorothy in on the events of the previous night, and Dorothy had tried to act casual but had clearly been distraught to learn that her daughter had found herself involved in yet another murder investigation.

  She was sitting before her now, sipping a coffee, and looking distractedly out of the patio doors towards the bottom of the garden and the looming boughs of the Wychwood.

  “Are you alright, Mum?”

  Dorothy smiled. “I’m just a bit worried about you, love. That’s all. You’ve already got so much going on, with Andrew, and your job, and now you’re running around chasing murderers. I know you’re following up on a story, but are you sure it’s safe?”

  “I know, Mum,” said Elspeth. She put her fork down and reached out, touching her mum’s hand. “It’s safe. Peter’s making sure of that.”

  Dorothy nodded, but she didn’t look convinced. “Is this what your life was like, down there? I always had this vision of you and Andrew curled up watching telly, and you going into the office to write up stories about burglaries, missing cats and local politics. I suppose that’s a bit naive really, isn’t it?”

  Elspeth laughed. “A bit. But I suppose it was a bit like that, really. I’d found a groove. Maybe even a rut. And I was happy. But I have to face facts, Mum. That’s over, now. If I go back to London, I’ll be starting over again. A new life, a new job – if I can find one.”

  “No luck on that front?”

  “A few freelance pieces to follow up on. No one’s hiring permanent positions anymore, though. All this coverage of the murders is going to stand me in good stead, though. It’s something I can point people to. Show them I can report from the scene, and tell the story as it unfolds.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Dorothy. “Just so long as you’re being careful. You’re my only daughter, Elspeth Reeves. I haven’t got a spare.”

  “Then you’d better get me some more of that bacon,” said Elspeth, sliding her plate across the table. “To make sure I don’t waste away.”